


Kinktober 2020

by rowan_reign



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: (only due to the tentacles), Art, Formalwear, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pole Dancing, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Stripping, Suits, Tentacles, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowan_reign/pseuds/rowan_reign
Summary: A collection of drabbles and artworks for Kinktober 2020, as composed by yours truly. Please read Chapter Title for pairing/character and kink, and relevant warnings will be added in the notes at the beginning of each chapter. Tags to be updated as the month progresses!
Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Todoroki Shouto, Chisaki Kai | Overhaul/Dabi/Takami Keigo | Hawks, Dabi/Takami Keigo | Hawks, Dande | Leon/Nezu | Piers, Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 198





	1. Day One: Lingerie (Hawks/Keigo Takami)




	2. Day Two: Nipple Play (Piers/Leon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings! Just Piers and Leon having some fun in a closet...especially with Leon’s chest.

Piers gets easily bored during these dreary charity functions, and everyone knows it. Not that it isn’t how all of them feel—there’s only so many endlessly droning speeches about this altruism and corporate-mandated donations that can be sat through before one’s eyes start to glaze over, but the punk has a notoriously short fuse when it comes to these sorts of things. 

Leon tolerates it because he’s been trained to, patiently waiting in the wings and milling about during the break in speeches, relieved that at least the hors d’oeuvres are tasty this time around. He scans the crowd and doesn’t see any sign of that signature black and white coif, unmistakable even at a distance; Piers must have ditched already and left them all behind. One of the benefits of the League not particularly caring about him is that at least he can more or less just walk out of these functions whenever he feels like it, and even as selfish as the desire is, Leon can’t help but wish he could follow. 

Yet just as his shoulders sag in resignation that he’s going to have to spend the rest of his evening plastering on his best smile and listening to people endlessly gab about how  _ wonderful _ he is and how  _ lucky _ they are to have the chance to explain to him every boring detail of their jobs, a familiar voice rasps in his ear from the shadows. 

“Feeling a bit dull, Champ?”

Piers melts out of some dark corner and the shiver that rolls up Leon’s spine follows him, stealing the words out of his mouth as he turns and meets slate grey eyes, twinkling with a rare mirth. 

“Don’t  _ do _ that, you scared me half to death!” Leon complains under his breath, but Piers only arches one neatly plucked eyebrow in response. Arceus, he’s lovely tonight, with smoky kohl winging out from around his eyes in a way that turns his usual exhausted appearance into something mysterious and alluring. No lipstick, just pale rose lips over white teeth, curling into one of his many smirks, and a black button-up open at the collar to reveal little slivers of his collarbone and the permanent silver choker resting like a jewel at the hollow of his throat. 

He’s gorgeous, even though Leon knows he shouldn’t be looking. He still has work to do tonight…

As though sensing this, Piers’ hand shoots forward and seizes his wrist with a surprising strength, and he gives it a solid tug in the direction of one of the doors that leads out to the hall. “C’mon, I can tell you’re about ready to keel over from boredom and too many canapés. Let’s get some fresh air, yeah?”

He knows he shouldn’t follow, and spares a guilty glance back over his shoulder at the party behind him. The ballroom is full of people dressed to the nines, murmuring in hushed tones and sipping demurely from champagne flutes, all as dry and interchangeable as mannequins. 

Piers tugs his wrist again, and Leon follows after him, moving swiftly through the crowd and, to his further surprise, not even needing to fend off any questions as he’s dragged through the door and out into a quiet hallway. It’s only when it closes that he asks himself again what he’s doing here—is Piers really kidnapping him from the party? Surely he knows that Leon would be missed, would get chewed out by Rose if he dared to not make his scheduled appearance at the end of the evening. It’s not like he can just fuck off and smoke a cigarette, or hop in a cab and drive off, no matter how much he wants to claw off the bow tie that has long since started to choke him. 

Then Piers shoves his chest with both hands, and sends him stumbling into a cleaning closet he never even noticed. He staggers, confused, and Piers steps in after, closing the door behind him with an audible click. The only light in here is from a small window located high on the back wall, and it casts the room in a thin silver glow, moonlit and frosty. 

Whatever protest Leon had in mind fades instantly, utterly forgotten before the look on Piers’ face. The noise of the party is nothing but a background hum now, and in the quiet of the closet, he can hear his own breath sawing in and out. Piers’ eyes are focused, but not in that brutal, measuring way he often has, nor are they hardened to a derisive glare—this is softer than that. Open. Questioning, and Leon’s heart leaps to his throat, hammering in his ears as though it wants Piers to hear its response. 

“Can I?” Not so much a question as a statement of intent, a rough whisper echoing between them that makes Leon’s entire body ache. As if he could say no, when cool fingers are already brushing across his jawline, cupping his cheek with a shocking tenderness. Unexpected, Piers is always so unexpected.

Leon wants to glance down at Piers’ lips, but all he can see are those eyes, luminous in the dark, and then they blur when Piers gets too close to look at anymore.

His mouth is raw, and hot, and Leon shudders underneath it, even though he’s got several inches over Piers and he’s nearly twice as broad. Piers kisses like he sings, forward and hungry, tongue snaking cleverly into Leon’s mouth as he pushes him back, forcing his shoulders into the metal edge of one of the shelves. Not that he can spare the attention to care about the pain, as he feels smooth lips move against his and a calloused fingertip press into the curve of his cheekbone, just under his left eye. Piers kisses like he’s trying to steal Leon’s breath, and Leon lets him, heart tying itself into eager knots. Metal flicks against his tongue and he groans, feeling that barbell caress the inside of his mouth expertly, and he should have known Piers would have something like this hidden away. Should have seen it before, when he was talking, maybe there was a subtle glint he just didn’t notice, and can’t think about remembering now. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in this moment, to lose everything and forget what he’s here for, where they are, when Piers is so good at erasing his thoughts. 

When they break apart, there’s a sharp tug at his neck, and the clutching pressure of the tie vanishes so quickly that he gasps. Long fingers make short work of the buttons on his shirt, and those searing lips slide along his jaw in a way that sends trickles of sensation running down his spine, gathering to a pool of arousal in his gut. He should stop this now—a quick snog was one thing, but Piers actively undressing him in a closet when he’s supposed to be onstage in half an hour is a bad idea. 

He says as much, but all it earns him is a chuckle that vibrates against the tender spot just beneath his earlobe, which Piers catches in his teeth and bites gently. “Oh, I know. The great Leon could never be seen missin’ one of his oh-so-eloquent speeches. I just thought I oughta provide a bit of stress relief, seeing how tense and bored you were in there.” Blunt teeth scrape over the thundering pulse at his throat, and the faint threat of it has Leon’s breath hitching, caught. A shred of danger to push this further, but Piers’ mouth doesn’t linger long. It slides down further, a burning wet line that turns cold the second his tongue is gone, a trail Leon can see inside his mind, darkness be damned. 

“That doesn’t—“ There was another protest he was going to make, but it dies an ignoble death on the back of his tongue when plush lips wrap around one of his nipples, and all the air goes out of the room. 

Even he isn’t totally oblivious to the comments made about his “bust”; it’s practically all over half the pictures he posts online, and sometimes he even leans into it a little. He worked hard on his chest, and he’s not opposed to people appreciating it. But he never expected someone to guess how sensitive it really is, and just how erotic it is to him to even think about someone playing with it.

Nor did he expect that someone to be Piers. 

A broken moan wrenches itself out of his throat as heat curls itself in his chest, each hungry tug of those lips echoing itself in the erection already aching against the front of his dress slacks. Piers’ free hand is already cupping and massaging the side of the chest that his mouth isn’t attending to, and the cool fingers push against the muscle in delightful ways. Instinctively his spine arches, pressing himself into that sucking mouth, hands clamping on the shelf behind him even as he feels Piers’ body slot against his own, grinding back against him. Every flick of his tongue sends Leon higher, and he tries desperately to bite back the hungry noises that threaten to spill out of his throat when he feels smooth metal contrast the rough slickness of Piers’ tongue. 

“We—oh god, we shouldn’t, someone might find us—“ he breathes, one hand shakily dislodging from the shelf and halfheartedly tugging at the black and white hair, until Piers backs off with an obscene wet pop.

“Not unless you keep makin’ those noises, love. Even you won’t be missed for fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes? Leon knows he’s in for it because that doesn’t sound like anywhere near enough, not when he looks down to find that wicked tongue curling out of Piers’ mouth, the silver barbell now glittering like a jewel in the light before pressing up against his chest once more. His hand clutches again, instinctive, but this time he’s cradling the back of Piers’ skull and fighting to hold back louder moans.

Then one of Piers’ fingertips pinches his free nipple, and the pain that shoots through him makes it a losing battle. The sound echoes in the cramped space of the closet, covering the lewd sucking of Piers’ lips for a moment, and Leon winces as he imagines someone in the ballroom hearing it somehow. Maybe the music will cover it, he can pray for that much. 

“Someone doesn’t know how t’ be quiet, and for once it’s not me,” Piers teases against his skin, then sends tendrils of sweet-hot pain running through Leon’s body when his teeth bite and scrape across a nipple gone hard from his suckling. “Maybe you  _ do _ get off on the idea, Champ. Someone walkin’ in and finding you like this, with my face buried in this lovely chest you’ve got and my hand crammed down your pants. Everyone already knows I’m a slut, but you? It’d be the scandal of the century, and I bet you’d love everyone knowin’ what your weakness is.”

The way Piers talks sends hot-and-cold flashes of fear and desire both running through Leon’s body, his mind tearing itself in two at the very idea. What Piers is talking about would ruin his career, but right in this moment, as calloused fingers work at pinching and rubbing one of his nipples so sensitive he wants to double over, he could really not give less of a fuck. Screw it, ruin it all, finally have the freedom to do what he wants and give in to his desires. It makes his stomach coil and tighten in a way that he can’t quite name as lust or panic.

Then Piers clamps a thin hand across his mouth, soundly taking the decision away from him. His shoulders almost sag in relief, even as the rest of his body thrills at the easy way that cool palm presses over his lips like iron. Piers’ presence is always commanding and magnetic when he wants it to be, dragging every gaze in the room towards him inexorably. A true siren. But now, as he moves and plays Leon’s body as expertly as he’s ever handled any instrument, that magnetism takes on an entirely new level of implication. Leon feels sweat drip down the side of his temple as Piers grinds their hips together, cocks aligned enough to tease one another through the fabric, but maddeningly not anywhere near enough friction to be satisfying. Instead, all the stimulation is coming from his chest, and Leon wants to cry that it aches already.

The urge to do something in return overwhelms him, and even in this position he realizes he still has the fingers of one hand tangled in Piers’ hair, and uses the grip to search for the elastic band holding it in place. He tries to be gentle as he pulls it away, he truly does, but the effect still makes Piers snarl against his skin as those long locks spill around his shoulders and down his back, taking him from dirty to utterly debauched—and he’s only been using his mouth. It’s painfully erotic in a way Leon couldn’t describe if he had a million years, but Piers’ eyes burn up at him from the shadows and he knows that the feeling is mutual. 

It’s all Leon can do to grip onto the shelf with his free hand, using it as an anchor because he’s certain his knees would give out without it to support him. Arceus, his mouth—lips, teeth, tongue, and he knows how to use each of them to the wickedest ends. They’re rutting against one another, hungrily chasing what little friction they’re getting, sliding body against body and Leon wants to curse all the clothing in between them. They ought to be doing this on a bed somewhere, ideally his. Ideally in his room, with all the lights on, so he can see every detail of the man taking him apart, and hopefully get a chance to return the favor. 

Hopefully, because it always feels like Piers is made of mercury, ready to quicksilver slip between his fingers and melt away to nothing. Leon wants to hold him against a solid surface, pin him down and take out all the pleasure and building lust that well up inside him every time Piers makes one of those subtle gestures Leon doesn’t even remember when he started noticing. Dragging his training gloves on and off. Tying back his hair. Biting his lower lip until it chaps. Leon wants to hold all of them in his arms, wants to hold Piers, but this is the best he’s getting and goddamnit, even this is incredible.

Piers’ mouth dislodges itself from his chest, leaving his nipple to perk even further in the cold of the air surrounding it, and he whines to see a strand of saliva connecting it to those lewd lips. 

“Drive me half-mental, Lee. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before—“ his free hand, the one not covering Leon’s mouth and forcing his chin to tilt down so he can stare into those icy blue eyes, rubs the pad of his thumb over Leon’s nipple until he can hardly concentrate on the words being said because his cock is pulsing in his trousers. Is it possible to get off just from this? Could he do it, right here and now? He feels almost desperate enough to try, chest still lifting up to Piers’ tormenting hand. “—but your body is fuckin’ incredible, and I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve not been able to sleep for thinking about it.”

He  _ is _ used to hearing about how gorgeous his body is and how people lust after him, but from Piers, the words take on a whole new meaning. There’s a longing that burns in that voice, a raspy yearning tone that makes Leon picture late nights tangled in sweaty sheets as Piers—oh. Does he really? The thought wrings another groan out of him that dies against Piers’ palm, which breaks down into a whimper as Piers finally makes good on that comment about shoving his hand down Leon’s pants. Clever fingers toy with the buckle of his belt and then deftly undo it, an unmistakable clink and clatter as he opens it and slides down the fly. 

Leon holds his breath, staring up at the ceiling as cool fingers trace the outline of his shaft through his underwear. The urge to beg and plead for Piers, to say  _ please, just touch me, anywhere is enough you’ve already gotten me so close, _ rises up inside him until he can hardly stand it, panting across the back of Piers’ knuckles. It ought to be pathetic that he’s already teetering towards orgasm just from Piers’ mouth on his nipples and the frantic, clumsy rutting of their hips, but Leon is simply too far gone to care at this point. 

Then Piers’ fingers slide through the slit at the front of his underwear, and draw his cock out achingly slow until he’s nearly standing on his toes to follow after. How long has he wanted this? He’s drunk with the fulfillment of it; the heat of himself resting in Piers’ hand. From the window, that square of moonlight illuminates just enough that he can see the contrast of his flushed cock with Piers’ own pale hand, the glitter of black nail varnish as those fingers close around him and begin to pump. 

Outside, there’s the rhythmic click of heels on the marble floor of the hallway, and Leon tenses in Piers’ grip. But that hand never stops working across him; Piers’ fingers are deliciously calloused and despite himself, he bucks into the grip, chasing that perfected friction. His heart hammers in his chest, fear and lust warring in his gut even as Piers bends close and laps at one of his nipples again, taunting him with swirled fingertips across the dripping head of his cock. The sound of footsteps dopplers close, and then fainter and fainter as they pass by, and he sags with a pulse of relief as the threat passes them by. 

The rush of adrenaline leaving his system heats him from the inside out, and Leon finally, finally can’t take it anymore. His hand shoots up and grasps around Piers’ slender wrist, pulling it off his face with a gasp, too rough by half but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Piers looks up at him, eyes gone wide with his shock, and it’s the perfect moment to crush their lips together again. 

This time, Leon leads the kiss. He isn’t as clever with his tongue and teeth as Piers, nor as experienced a kisser, but what he lacks in proficiency he makes up for in sheer passion. Every drop of wanting is poured into this kiss, every moment that he’s craved Piers for all the freedoms he represents. For all the anger, the bitterness, the fire and shadow he’s allowed to feel that Leon wants to drink down until he can feel the burn in his own throat. For all the softness and tenderness he wants to answer it with, the smiles and moans alike that he dreams of earning. His stomach tightens further, the coil in his gut winding tighter and tighter as he bruises Piers’ lips and sucks on his tongue, flicking the barbell with the tip of his own and swallowing down the moan Piers offers up when Leon grabs him by the waist. 

It doesn’t take him long, not with Piers’ hand still expertly wrapped around his shaft and stroking him rapidly enough that there’s the sound of flesh on flesh echoing up between them. Not when Piers gathers himself enough to sink sharp teeth into his lower lip, and the blossom of pain in his mouth adds another layer of sensation, and between one breath and the next, the line snaps. He muffles his own growl of pleasure into Piers’ lips, not even kissing him anymore so much as holding in his sounds against him. Letting them reverberate through their connected tongues, aching down his jaw. Everything goes white and hot and he feels himself pressing into Piers, wanting him to take it all, his cum shooting out over his slender hand and bony knuckles.

When it ends, Leon slumps halfway against the shelves and halfway against Piers, trying hopelessly to catch his breath. He can’t remember the last time he had an orgasm like that; one of Piers’ hands and a little of his mouth on his chest had Leon spending so hard his legs feel like jelly. It’s ridiculous what Piers can do to him, and even as reality starts to seep back in the cracks, a breath ghosts against his ear and makes him shiver. 

“Fuck, Lee—that was...incredible.” Piers is saying that as though he was the one who got pleasured there, when Leon was the one who got off so hard his ears might be ringing a bit. It doesn’t make sense to him, but when he finally manages to stand up straight again, Piers is already buttoning his shirt closed. There’s a mess on the concrete floor and Leon really wishes that he hadn’t left it behind for someone else to clean, but alas. “Wish I could keep you here with me all night, but you’ve got a speech to give.”

Shit. His speech—how in the hell is he going to get presentable in time? Is he late already? Reaching down, he hurriedly tucks his still-sensitive dick back into his underwear and zips up his trousers, buckling his belt and hoping his shirt hasn’t bunched too awkwardly at the front of his suit. This is why he prefers sportswear, way less hassle. He can’t even remember how his bow-tie is supposed to work...he fumbles with it, and then Piers’ hands bat his aside.

In a flash, they have his bow-tie redone, and it might be better looking now than it was the first time around. “I—“ he starts, pauses. Has no idea what to say in this situation; he was never good at words. “Thank you. And that felt incredible for me too...Piers, can I take you out to dinner sometime? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind all the press. Not that this wasn’t a fantastic fifteen minutes, but I want to have an evening with you, too.” 

Piers snorts, but then grins in a way that erases all his doubts. “Hope yer speech isn’t as tangled as all that, mate. But yes, I’d love to go out to dinner with you. And back home with you, ‘cause you owe me my own fifteen minutes of fun.” The words are teasing, but they put the wind magnificently back into his sails. Piers wants to go out with him! Piers said yes to a date!

The happiness is enough to carry him through his speech, and he doesn’t even notice that several of the cameras have taken particular shots of his chest and the way his nipples are showing through his shirt. At least, not until Raihan texts him a link from a gossip blog, and he promptly turns redder than the top half of a Pokeball. 

Piers was worth it, though.


	3. Day Three: Tentacles (DabiHawks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR SLIGHT DUBCON. It is a tentacle monster, they’re just like that. Don’t worry, everyone ends up enjoying it thanks to some aphrodisiac.

They hadn’t intended to get caught like this.

Well, it’s not like most people would intend to get caught in a giant mass of writhing, non-sentient but definitely mobile tentacles that had begun sprouting out of the walls and floor of the abandoned warehouse where they were having their secret meeting, but Dabi and Hawks had definitely not been intending it. What is even the point of a  _ secret _ meeting if things like this are going to happen?

“I’m just asking—is this your guy, or my guy? Like, who the—fuck, who the hell is after which one of us?” Hawks shouts, as he uses the sharpened end of one of his feathers to slash through the gooey tendril arcing towards him. 

That’s another hang-up of being a Professional Hero and (unprofessional, highly unsupervised) villain, respectively. It could be absolutely anyone who was doing this, and there wasn’t even any way to tell which of the two of them was being targeted unless the owner of this Quirk showed their face. 

“If it was my fucking guy, he’d be dead fucking meat by now!” Dabi snarled back, aiming a blast of blue flames at the seething mass. It hissed on contact, searing the upper layer of gel with a smell like charring steak, but then the creature just swallowed the injury whole and reformed around it, shooting out a tentacle that wrapped around Dabi’s hand, coating it entirely in viscous green slime. Biting out a rough curse, he tried to fire into it again, but instead of exploding off him, the gelatinous tentacle just expanded, then vented the heat out in a great cloud of steam that hissed towards the concrete ceiling. Would the building even hold this thing?

Keigo tried to put himself into full hero mode. To become the Number Two, the fastest man alive—but he’d been paying so much attention to Dabi that he hadn’t noticed another person approaching. All his focus had been on the villain, and now he was paying because he’d gotten sloppy. 

It would be the perfect ambush, except for the fact that another tentacle wrapped around Dabi’s other hand, and he was completely and totally stuck. Not strong enough to pull himself free, and with his Quirk rendered useless, he was trapped.

And Hawks couldn’t take it. He hated this part of himself, the part that had come to view Dabi with a certain interest over the past months that extended just beyond his information gathering duties as a spy. It was a weakness, he was positive of that much, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when it came to the scarred ghoul of a man across from him. Dabi wasn’t charming, wasn’t suave or flirtatious, but perhaps it was the fact that he was so different from everyone else Keigo had ever encountered that made him so impossibly tempting. He ought to be hideous, a monster of a man held together with the thinnest of seams and prayers, but...there’s just something devilishly alluring about him. Something about his cruel smirks and wicked turns of phrase that has Keigo plunging into what he knows are traps, chasing after some real handhold to work himself into.

Dabi makes Keigo want to pull him apart, just to see what makes him tick. And perhaps, in many ways, he yearns to be torn apart himself. Opened up in a hundred unique ways, all his sins bared out because he knows Dabi won’t judge them. Or he will, and his punishment will be swift. Either way, finally, consequences. That’s what Dabi is. One big walking consequence.

Perhaps it’s that yearning for closure that has Keigo reaching for his sharpest feather, because it’s certainly no better angel on his shoulder. He’s long past that sort of thing. 

He draws it back, leaps towards Dabi intending to swing it to slice him free, and then a thick tentacle wraps around his middle and tosses him in the air like a rag doll. Desperate wings flap, trying to catch his balance in midair, but then another grabs him around the base of one wing and he spins, caught and dangling uselessly. Dammit, this thing is everywhere, and there’s not a goddamn way to get out of it that he can find. Below him, Dabi is still struggling, and a third tentacle has started to probe around his chest.

Oh god, if this turns into some sort of facehugger thing, Keigo’s gonna vomit. 

Except instead of trying to impregnate him or punch a hole through his chest, the thing just rips Dabi’s paper-thin excuse for a shirt open, and starts sliding up and down across his torso. It’s...what the hell is it doing, exactly? It’s hard to see Dabi’s face from this angle, but he seems as confused by it as Keigo is. 

Two more tentacles wrap around Dabi’s legs, convulsing and squeezing until he drops to his knees with a thud on the concrete floor of the warehouse. That’s sure to leave a bruise, but Dabi doesn’t seem to mind so much. It slicks back and forth across his chest, twisting and curling in a way that seems paradoxically senseless and purposeful at the same time. The thought that someone is controlling this monster to attack them on purpose crosses his mind, but that doesn’t make sense on two counts. One, because that person would have to possess an unheard-of level of focus and ability to spread their consciousness, because even Keigo is having trouble keeping up with the damn thing using his feathers, and he’s been training since childhood to hone his awareness of each and every one of them. Two, because the thing isn’t actually  _ attacking _ . 

Not in the sense of hurting either of them, anyway. Instead, the thing curls up Dabi’s chest and rubs back and forth across his nipples, two smaller tendrils branching off it to play with either side of his chest, like fingers. Then the main one raises in front of him like a serpent, and Keigo watches his brief moment of hesitance with shock, and then the thing is pushing in past his lips and it almost looks like a kiss, if in an utterly alien fashion. It pulses and writhes as though delighted and he swears that he can see Dabi’s throat working like he’s swallowing it down. Not fighting. 

Keigo wants to thrash, but by the time his muscles respond, he realizes that there are tentacles snaking up the legs of his hero costume trousers, wrapping around his ankles and quickly circling his calves. He ought to be calling for backup, but he can’t reach his phone anymore, and his wings are getting coated in the slime this creature produces. It’s thick and viscous and drips between every feather like honey, coating him all over until it’s just so hard to  _ think _ straight. It feels as though the sensation of it is everywhere at once, and the creature is shockingly warm. Almost like a living body, and somewhere along the way, the clinging tendrils begin to feel like fingers, mouths, tongues.

Over his chest, under his shirt. Across the back of his neck, up his thighs, it’s touching him everywhere and he isn’t entirely sure that he wants it to stop anymore. A moan echoes up from below him, and in his suspended position, he watches as the thing breaks free of Dabi’s mouth and starts to toy with his body more intently. Sucking at his nipples, playing with the edges of his scars in a way that has him arching his back harder for the thing. Is he...getting into this? Enjoying it? The thought seems untenable, yet the protests dwindle by the second because Keigo is getting a front-row seat to the debauching of the man who has been literally haunting his dreams for weeks now.

One of the tentacles plunges below the waistline of the tattered pants he wears, just as held-together as the man himself, and oh. Oh. Dabi is definitely enjoying it, with the way he throws his head back and moans full and deep. Whatever the thing is doing to him has to feel good, and Keigo hates himself a bit for squirming in its grip. Which of them is he jealous of, exactly? His thighs clamp together, but sticky tentacles push them apart. 

He ought to be helping. Or fighting. Or fleeing. Something. Some struggle to show that he doesn’t want this, isn’t looking forward to being ruined and watch Dabi go through the same treatment, because how fucking perverted is that? Except Dabi isn’t showing any hesitation about bucking his hips up into the monster’s mass, especially when it starts to pulse again in a way that definitely means suction.

The tentacle monster is sucking him off, and the only thing Keigo can truly wish is that he could see more. A warm prodding at his mouth has him opening it almost on instinct, and before he can close it again, a tentacle snakes its way past his lips and across his tongue. It works over his gums and then pushes down the back of his throat in a ferocious kiss, yet it tastes oddly sweet with a fruity flavor he can’t quite place. 

A sweet liquid begins to drip out of the tip, and his choices are swallow or choke, so he swallows. Whatever it is tastes more like syrup than anything, but a second after it goes down, it starts to burn like a mild hot sauce. He swears he can feel it all the way down his throat until it curls warmly in his gut, like a shot of fine whiskey. Heating him from the inside out, until...until...oh god, this must be what happened to Dabi. 

The heat inside him metamorphoses, unfolding from mere warmth to a deep, burning lust that runs through him like embers. His body aches with want so quickly it’s breathtaking, and he’s already trying to gasp around the thick tentacle in his throat, praying he won’t choke on it. Yet even as he does, it coaxes the back of his tongue, and in a flash, he realizes it’s pulling aside the fabric of his underwear to start sliding up and down the sex that’s already growing wet for it.

It’s been so long. Can Dabi see him like this? The world feels hazy and one of those oh so clever tendrils curls around his clit, pumping it back and forth until it’s rock hard. Another teases at his entrance, parting the folds and rubbing up against the sensitive flesh until all at once it thrusts forward, spearing him open. He keens against the length in his mouth, but it doesn’t give a single inch. Inside, the tip curls and twists and pushes up against spots he never even knew existed until his back is arching hard, thighs shaking as fingers of pleasure race through him. And the knowledge that Dabi could be watching this while receiving his own pleasure drives him even higher. That he’s seeing him come undone like this, feeling it too...would Dabi want to touch him? Does he now? Keigo wants to touch him, wants so very many things it feels as though lately he’s just one complicated mass of need.

The tentacles erase all the complications, and slowly lower him down towards the mass on the floor, never ceasing in the steady thrusts that have taken up inside his body. His cunt squeezes around it, tightening, and yet it still plunges into him with relentless force, rubbing against his g-spot until he feels his eyes crossing. Inside, outside, everywhere. 

When he can actually convince his eyelids to open again, he realizes with a startled jolt that he’s right in front of Dabi. Those wildfire-blue eyes are burning into him, yet they’ve gone half-lidded and dark with lust. Neither of them can touch the other, but the sight alone of Dabi with the tentacles caressing his body is more than enough for Keigo. Especially when the creature finally rips through those useless pants, and he can see every inch of flesh displayed to him. Through the gelatinous mass, he can see Dabi’s cock as it’s sucked and pumped, hard and red at the tip, big enough to make him squirm from the sight alone. He’s already so full of the tentacle and yet he slicks further imagining that pushing up inside him...and from the look in Dabi’s eyes, he’s picturing much the same thing. 

“Fuck, look at you, li’l birdie…” his voice is rough and rasping, likely from the abuse of his throat by the tentacle sliding down into it. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. It definitely, absolutely is, and when one of the tendrils does a marvelous thing of unfurling into a little suction-cup mouth, fitting over his dick and sucking in rhythmic jerks, Keigo can only keen in response. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do but hang there and whine as it makes him cum hard, looking into Dabi’s burning eyes and wishing it were him. Filling him up and fucking him out, just like this. His thighs strain as more tentacles slither through his wings and short-circuit his mind, and then it only lifts him higher and keeps thrusting. His mind is blown out by the pleasure, and yet he can’t stop wanting more. 

“Goddamnit, I wish I could feel you cum on me like that,” Dabi moans out, even as Keigo tries to catch his breath. “I wish I could fucking—cum inside you, nice and fucking deep, hero...I know you want it too.” Keigo does want it, he wants it so bad he can’t stand it. All the things he knows he shouldn’t crave and can’t have are standing across from him, and the best he can muster is a moan as he watches Dabi start to orgasm too. 

It’s a beautiful sight to behold, even on such a ragged man. His face and chest flush, and his hips buck up, filling the gel tentacle with white cum. His pleasure goes on and on, and Keigo wants to record every second of it, burn it all into his brain. The way Dabi shudders, arching and groaning, the way his staples catch the light. All of it. 

He also wants to kiss him, but first they have to figure out how to make this damn thing let them go.


	4. Day Four: Bondage (Tomura Shigaraki)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings!


	5. Day Five: Threesome (OverDabiHawks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply!


	6. Day Six: Fingering (Leon/Piers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Trans!Piers, no warnings apply


	7. Day Seven: Virginity Loss (TodoBaku)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply!

“I’ve never done this before,” Shouto murmurs, and Katsuki pauses, brow furrowing.

“Yeah, no shit.” Okay, probably not the most tactful response to that statement. But Bakugou Katsuki has never been famous for his diplomacy skills. All other skills, yes. Diplomacy and tact, not so much. 

He’s just wondering why Shouto picked  _ this _ moment to bring it up. They’re in his bedroom, door locked, and Katsuki is sitting astride his lap and grinding back and forth with slow undulations of his hips that are, by all the evidence he can feel prodding his ass, being very well received. It’s not like he didn’t know; Shouto’s never had a boyfriend before. Never been kissed before. The fact that he’d never had sex before was more or less a given, though when they’d started this, he’d seemed as enthusiastic as ever. For someone who can come across as stoic sometimes, and despite all his inexperience, he kisses like a demon. All hot lips and filthy tongue, and Katsuki would ask  _ who taught you that?  _ if he didn’t know damn well it was himself. 

Katsuki doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, though. Not like this. Clocking each other in the face on the training field, trading back and forth verbal jabs and teasing nicknames—that’s one thing. But even he won’t press about something like this, and he sits back, feeling under one palm just how hard Shouto’s heart is hammering, thudding against his rib cage as he presses the scarred side of his face to the pillow. Lovely, but vulnerable. 

“We can stop if you want. Doesn’t have to be today if you’re not into it.” Shouto looks up at him with an indescribable emotion in those two-toned eyes, the fire Katsuki loves to see because it means that he’s getting all of him. Real and authentic, just how he likes it. 

Strong hands rise to cup his ass, kneading with impossibly long fingers that he’s imagined plunging inside himself more than once, and he only just manages to restrain a groan. “It’s not that—I do want to. Trust me. I’ve thought about it,” Shouto says, voice honest and level as always. “I want to fuck you. I just...I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

Hurt him? That’s not the stumbling block Katsuki was expecting, but—when he thinks about it, it makes a terrible sort of sense for Shouto. There are probably many, many reasons a man like him views sex as an inherently painful event, and Katsuki can’t get through all of them tonight. What he can do is provide him with a little reassurance, and he does so with a smirk. “Hah? You think you’re gonna hurt  _ me?  _ Not a chance, you can never lay a finger on all this. I’m not gonna be hurt riding your cock, I’m gonna fucking enjoy it so much I make you see stars. Put you out of commission for weeks.” The words are his usual bluster with an added sprinkle of eroticism, and it works wonders.

Those hands tighten their grip to a deliciously powerful squeeze, and Shouto drags him forward and back, until Katsuki’s sex is grinding against his cock through layers of clothing. It’ll feel amazing when they’re together, but even this steady friction is enough to have him throwing his head back in arrogant delight. “Fuckin’ right, I’m gonna milk you dry. You’ve never had a pussy squeeze you empty before, huh? Nothin’ compares, you’ll see.” The rosy flush that slowly stains across porcelain pale cheeks is nothing short of gratifying, and the way Shouto’s pale lashes flutter low over his eyes makes him look debauched in the most angelic way. 

Delightful, delicious, and all for him. Moving up onto his knees, Katsuki leans forward so he can slide off for a moment and hook his fingers under the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them off and carelessly throwing them aside. “Look at it,” he commands when he straightens up again, and watches Shouto’s throat bob as he swallows at the sight. Cool fingers caress up the inside of his thigh, hesitating for a moment at the top, and Katsuki reaches down to grab Shouto’s wrist, pressing his fingers up between the folds. 

“It’s so wet—“ he murmurs reverently, and god, that tone of voice could really be a man’s undoing. Katsuki moans when Shouto teases at his entrance, fingers curious in their prodding, and rubs back and forth across the head of his dick, creating a riotous sensation of pleasure. Back, forth. They’re really doing this, and that thought alone makes Katsuki as close to giddy as he ever gets. 

“Fuck, that’s it. Just like that. Push one up inside me,” he pants, and Shouto’s mouth falls open into a pink moue as he obeys, finger curling up inside. The contrast of a cool finger against the inside of his feverish pussy wrenches another groan out, and Katsuki uses his grip on Shouto’s wrist to fuck it in and out of himself. Every bit as filthy and good as he imagined, and when Shouto’s own muted moan reaches his ears, he clenches down hard on the finger pushing inside. More, he wants so much more.

Grunting, because he’s never been one to say please, Katsuki places one foot against the mattress and feels a second finger pressing up into his cunt. Greedy. Two fingers is  _ almost _ too much,  _ almost _ a shock at the suddenness, but Katsuki isn’t about to wimp out from just that. It’s only that Shouto’s fingers are so long, curving and pressing into every single spot inside him like he’s instinctively aware of where they are. It makes it that much easier to imagine his cock plunging inside instead, and he decides instantly that’s something he wants sooner rather than later. Looking down, he can see it tenting the front of Shouto’s grey boxers, a faint wet-patch already spreading across the head. Fucking hell.

It jumps against his palm when he touches it, thick and hot and so ready to find a place to spill into. Shouto gasps, head thrown back, light spilling along his neck like a painting and Katsuki would be jealous, he really would, but he’s the one wrecking this man an inch at a time and there’s nothing better in the world right now. “You really wanna fuck me, huh? You’re so hard, bet you can’t wait.” Shouto’s hand is still pumping away between his thighs, punctuating his gasps with lewd squelching sounds. One day they’ll do nothing but this, and he’ll teach Shouto how to eat him out too, maybe sit on that pretty face and ride it like a saddle. The thought sends a shudder up his spine, and he yanks those boxer briefs down with a single tug. 

Shouto’s cock springs free easily, and damn, it’s as lovely as the rest of him. A gorgeous rosy pink with a fat head and a long blue vein running up one side that Katsuki hopes to have the opportunity to trace with his tongue one day. He wraps an eager hand around it, aware of how his rough calluses contrast with the unbearably soft skin, and strokes up and down once. Sensitive in the way that only virgins can be, Shouto’s hips come off the bed, bucking needily into his fist. “Rub my dick with your thumb,” he commands, and shows Shouto what he means by stroking over the head of his cock with a steady pressure of his own. A choked noise breaks out of his boyfriend, and he grins at the gratification of that. There’s just something so wickedly satisfying about this, about knowing he’s stripping away Shouto’s virginity with every touch, educating him in the ways of pleasure and lust. 

Normally, he likes to move fast and fuck hard, but this evening, he can take a break just to enjoy tormenting the writhing body underneath him. Shouto deserves it slow and meaningful, and while there might not be roses and candles, Katsuki is damned if he won’t make sure Shouto remembers this for the rest of his life. 

Just as he’s about to bend down and lick a stripe up the side, right along that vein he’s been eyeing, he feels Shouto’s fingers slide out of him and turns to bitch him out. Just in time to see him push his fingers past his lips, sucking them clean of the slick coating them, eyes fluttering shut in what looks like pure ecstasy. When they open again, the blue-grey has gone dark with lust, and he looks utterly debauched already. “Mm...your pussy tastes good. Different than I expected, but good.”

That goddamn blunt mouth, sometimes it really knows just what to say. Katsuki bends over him again, crushing their lips together and enjoying the heat already wafting off Shouto’s skin, a vague reminder of the flames that live so easily beneath it. His hand continues to jerk him off, indulging in the velvety-smooth feel of Shouto’s cock in his palm, until Katsuki just can’t wait anymore. No patience left anywhere in him. 

Straddling Shouto, he smirks down at his flushed face as he lines up the head of his cock with his entrance, and bends his thighs to slowly begin sinking down on it. “Fuck, that’s good,” he pants as he feels his pussy starting to open up, a pleasant stretch and warmth as the tip passes through the first ring of muscle. Shouto’s hands are tight on his thighs, enough to leave bruises as he clearly strains not to thrust himself up inside like he so badly wants to. Reaching down, Katsuki slides a hand across the heavy muscle of his chest, pinching at a shell-pink nipple. “Calm down, I’m gettin’ to it.”

Shouto lets out a shaky moan, and Katsuki slides down another inch, feeling that cock grow wider and wider inside him. Really, kinda comical how good it feels. A fat dull pressure buried inside him, and his hips roll back and forth as his hand leaves Shouto’s chest and goes to stroke off his own dick. Pleasure drips through his body in a golden wave, searing him up from the inside out, and goddamn if that isn’t just how he likes it. 

“God—Katsuki—“ Shouto bites out underneath him, and Katsuki tilts his head forward from where it had languidly rolled back on his shoulders to look down at him. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he teases, sliding down even further until the thick base of Shouto’s cock is stretching at the front of his pussy. The fullness sits so deep inside, and yet he can feel Shouto’s hips twitching, tiny thrusts inside him that heat the blaze into a burn of pure lust. He’s panting, mouth hanging slightly open, the stoic expression he normally wears ruined by pleasure. And that, more than anything, has been what Katsuki has wanted from him for the longest time.

One of Shouto’s hands—the cold one—reaches to twine with his own fingers, and Katsuki gives it a squeeze as he starts to ride him in measured, even thrusts. There’s no way Shouto’s going to last long, not if the way his entire body is trembling is any indication, but the two of them fall into a rhythm of bodies that has Katsuki moaning for real as Shouto’s cock slides against the sensitive spot inside him again and again. This itself feels good, to just have Shouto inside him, to be against him like this is real and raw and perfect. This is sex with a person he cares about, and it’s raunchy and intimate, has Katsuki sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he works himself faster with one hand and squeezes Shouto’s slender fingers tight with the other. 

“Katsuki, Katsuki—I’m getting close,” Shouto manages, his eyes now shutting tight and his brow furrowing like he’s trying so hard to hang on. It’s unfair that a virgin is this incredible at bringing Katsuki rocketing towards his own orgasm, but he’ll complain about it later. It feels like Shouto’s cock is growing even thicker and harder inside him, and he slams himself down onto it, toes curling as the pleasure of it rocks his entire body. 

Both of them are coated in sweat, and he can feel with the backs of his knuckles where his slick has dripped onto the base of Shouto’s dick, soaking down the curls that gather there. “Yeah, that’s it. Cum for me, you’re making me feel so good...fuck, Shouto, if you keep screwing me like this I’m gonna cum too,” he allows himself to say. Reassurance, like, because he’s not an asshole all the way to the core, despite what some people might say to him. Shouto’s grip on his free hand says he knows that, and when he releases it, it’s only to seize Katsuki by the waist. 

There’s a distinctive moment where he can feel Shouto release all his restraint, and he slams Katsuki down onto his cock, sending sparks of violent pleasure skittering up his spine. Every thrust carries behind it the power of someone who has been holding this back for a while, and a distant part of Katsuki’s brain wonders if Shouto has been fantasizing about this before now. Not that he can hold the thought for long, because one hand on him is starting to tingle with heat and the other makes him hiss at the frost, and he gasps as he feels himself impaled on the thickest part of Shouto’s dick. 

His orgasm takes him by surprise, tearing out of him with an astounding force as Shouto continues to hammer away inside his cunt, even as it twitches and tightens almost painfully around him. Everything goes white-hot and blissful and he shouts, a garbled noise that might be Shouto’s name, and feels his dick pulse hard enough between his fingers that he swears it swells another inch. 

The next few thrusts inside are primal, sloppy, and utterly selfish. A virgin taking out all his pleasure in the sucking wet heat given to him; Shouto buries deep and the muscles of his abs tense as he nearly bends in half, shoulders coming off the bed as he spills. Cum flows deep inside Katsuki and he groans weakly for it, a half-confused noise as it continues to pulse into him. 

When they finally collapse, Katsuki lays across Shouto’s chest, and gives a rough kiss to the side of his jaw. “Not bad for your first time, half-n-half. Let’s see if you manage to make it more than five minutes the next time, though. ‘Cause that’s gonna be fuckin’ pathetic if you keep it up.”

Shouto only twists awkwardly to raise a brow at him, and still manages to look good doing it, the bastard. “Well, you do have a habit of knocking me out early, but I’ll try and redeem myself.”


	8. Day Eight: Stripping/Poledance (Piers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings!


	9. Day Nine: Voyeurism (Raihan/Piers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dubcon and, obviously, themes of voyeurism/watching someone else jerk off.

Raihan knows that he shouldn’t be seeing this. Absolutely, definitely not. There’s a line and he’s definitely crossing it so hard right now, he can’t even see where the line is behind him anymore.

He could, theoretically, blame the League for putting them all up in the same hotel for a match in Wyndon. He could blame the architect of the hotel itself, for deciding to adjoin some of the rooms with a door. He could blame housekeeping for deciding not to close said door all the way when they were finished, or he could even blame fate for putting him in a room next to Piers.

Mainly, though, it’s definitely his fault. Because he’s the one standing there with his face pressed to the seam of the door, heart pounding a mile a minute because he’s watching the man he’s had a crush on for years slowly strip his slender, flawless body out of the skin tight athleticwear he always has on and crawl up onto the plush bed. Okay, maybe other people would call him too gaunt and skinny, too corpse-pale to ever be attractive, but fuck those people. Raihan has fantasized too many times about wrapping his hands around that petite waist and seeing if he could make his fingers touch, that perky little arse that begs to be spread open and licked like the peach it is.

Which is probably why he can’t move his feet, even though he feels like the world’s biggest pervert right now. Guilt and lust are warring inside him, and the disturbing fact is that lust is winning. Piers reaches up and slides the hair tie out of his ever-present ponytail, monochrome hair fanning out around his body like strands of silk. Raihan’s hands ache to tangle in it, to feel if it’s really as soft as it looks and knot it between his knuckles. 

He’d been meaning to ask Piers if he wanted to watch a movie together, just shoot the breeze before they both got an early rest for the big match tomorrow. That was all; they never seem to get a chance to hang out, and he’s always searching for opportunities to change that. Now his eyes are roving over the curves of surprisingly muscular calves, and goddamn, it’s unfair that a leg can be that sexy. Piers shifts on the bed, which is directly across the room from this door, and Raihan is petrified with the split-second fear that he’ll be discovered. His breath hisses against the back of the wood, but Piers’ eyes skip over it, and he rustles around on the bedside table for the remote before turning the TV on.

There’s about a minute where Raihan thinks that’s all that’s going to happen. Maybe Piers just sleeps naked, and yeah he got a cheeky eyeful of tight ass and ripe thighs and oh—oh, that’s definitely a cunt under there. Fuck. But it’s fine, it’s just a glimpse, it can be his dirty little secret and he promises to feel appropriately guilty all night long, as soon as he can pry himself away from this door. 

Except Piers doesn’t just stop there. He stands from the bed again—Raihan wonders if he somehow heard the pounding of his heart, even though the TV is on loud now, some random program he doesn’t even care to name but for the fact that it bathes Piers’ already pale skin in an ethereal blue glow. Makes him look even more fae than he already is, like something not entirely belonging to this world, and Raihan would go down on his knees to worship so eagerly that he almost misses Piers going over to one of his bags and crouching down to unzip it. 

What’s he doing? Silent, Raihan braces one hand against the doorframe, and tries not to die inside of curiosity while Piers rummages through his luggage. 

When he turns, Raihan actually has to bite his lip to keep the whine inside, the sting of it heating his face further. Piers has what is undoubtedly a sex toy in his hands, made of some sort of...glass, perhaps? Yes, it has to be, with the way it glints in the light. It doesn’t look like a cock, hardly phallic at all but for the rounded tip. The rest of the shaft waves up and down slightly, and it looks more like...well, a tentacle. 

Yep, that instantly spawns a million new fantasies that each clamor greedily for his attention, and he’d indulge each of them in turn if his ears weren’t ringing as Piers saunters back towards the bed. With his dildo, which he’s going to be using to masturbate, and Raihan—-fuck it, Raihan is going to watch. Maybe the floor will open underneath him and he’ll fall straight to the pits of hell after, but it’ll be worth it. He’s craved this for too long, imagined it in the shower and dreamed about it while fingering himself. 

Turns out they have more in common than he thought, and for some reason, that makes it even better. That he doesn’t have to explain himself or his body to Piers, because Piers already knows, he understands it all. Raihan’s eyes magnetize to the way his nipples are a little too round and not quite even; makes sense for him, being so skinny and all. Doesn’t matter, makes him more delectable. He hops up onto the bed again and Raihan gets another view of those long legs, plump thighs he’d die to have wrapped around his head and smothering him. 

Piers isn’t going to get under the covers, he realizes after a minute, and if he wasn’t already balanced against the door, he’d likely be swaying where he stands as all his blood runs south. Fuck, those pretty thighs spread open and he gets a full view of Piers’ sex, covered in dark curls with pale streaks shot through them, and a ripe red dick already starting to harden. When was the last time he saw such an appetizing pussy? Lengthy, knobby fingers slip down over his belly and tease the curls at the front for a minute, skating out around the sides of his thighs, and Raihan’s brain catalogues the information without him even asking it to. Piers likes a little foreplay before he gets started, prefers his dick and cunt teased to need. Good, he can (won’t, but could) work with that. 

Piers opens a slightly beat-up old laptop next, setting the toy aside for a moment while he types something in, and connects a pair of earbuds into the side. So the TV is theoretically for Raihan’s benefit, then. To cover the moans. Which he’s going to be hearing anyway, because he’s standing here palming himself through the front of his shorts, watching as Piers’ eyes fix on the screen and he slowly lies back against the absolute mountain of pillows the hotel has given them, thighs still wide like an invitation. It would be so, so painfully easy to cross this room and crawl up on the bed after him, put a hand on either one and plunge his tongue deep inside that waiting sex. Piers’ varnished nails emphasize the movements of his fingers as he spreads the folds wide, and goddamnit it looks so fucking tight. Rose-pink and hungry for touch, topped with an impressive cock Raihan will dream about having on his tongue for months after this.

Piers doesn’t introduce the toy right away. Instead, he just plays with himself, rubbing at the hardening nub of his cock until it stands up past his curls, hips bucking up into his own touch like it’s been a long time. Maybe it has, maybe that’s why he waited for the (not so very private) privacy of this hotel room, when he’s finally alone and doesn’t have any obligations to attend to. Such a shame, but it makes his pussy wet quickly, the curls damping down and glistening as his leg arches wider, showing himself off fully.

One finger slips in, and they both hiss, Piers louder than Raihan who muffles it against his sleeve. Even from this distance, he can tell how hard those needy walls are clenching on just one finger. Raihan imagines them gripping and massaging one of his own, sucking it up into that tight molten heat, and goddamnit he can’t do this. Wincing, he stuffs one of his hands down the front of his shorts to play with his own aching clit, and the relief almost has his knees buckling as Piers’ finger starts making a wet noise with the way it thrusts in and out.

He works himself two-handed for a while, rubbing his dick in quick circular motions between two fingers that Raihan memorizes, mimicking the move on himself and trying not to go cross-eyed from the thought that he and Piers are jerking off the same way. It’s so wrong, it’s so fucking wrong but he can’t stop, not when his orgasm is already tingling the base of his spine by the time Piers grabs for his glass toy.

The thing glitters in the light, and Raihan watches him pause with the head tucked against his entrance, skinny stomach rising and falling in quick breaths as he prepares. Then slowly, oh-so-slowly it must be fucking torture, he tightens his wrist and impales his pussy on it an inch at a time, stroking off his cock all the while. Raihan would give anything, pay or do anything in this world to be the one gripping the handle of that thing to press it up inside Piers’ needy sex, watching his wetness trickle down the hilt. He would kiss him, worship every inch of his body, not just be some perverted voyeur helplessly jerking himself off to the sight. 

Piers starts to thrust the toy in and out of himself, and Raihan’s teeth are sunk into his sleeve at this point to muffle any noises that would otherwise be escaping. No, he wants to hear everything from Piers’ end, the filthy slick noise of him fucking himself and the whimpery mewls that have started pouring from his throat as he pounds the toy in and out, eyes fixed on the screen. What porn is he watching? What does he get off to? Raihan is dying to know, but not as much as he’s dying to watch Piers cum. 

There’s a heart-stopping moment where Piers’ eyes squeeze closed and he rolls back against the bed, hips bucking up to fuck himself harder on the toy, and his mouth falls open on the first genuine moan Raihan has ever heard from him. Soft, but deep and throaty, it strikes right to his core and goddamnit if he’s not groaning in response. Thank god Piers put headphones in, and can’t hear the sticky noise of him jerking himself off, fingers gone sloppy with his own wanting. They would be wet all over each other, and even if neither of them had a strap, they could still finger and taste and grind against one another until they got off. Trade blowjobs and hand-jobs, it wouldn’t matter. Any touch would be utterly divine.

It isn’t going to last long, and Raihan knows it. The heat coiling in his gut is too tight, especially with the way Piers is starting to curve the toy into himself further, undoubtedly using it to fuck his g-spot, his cunt clinging so sweetly to it every time he pulls it back. His dick is so swollen it looks cherry red and sore, and Raihan wants nothing more than to soothe it with his tongue, feel Piers writhing and moaning beneath him. 

Those breaths get harder and faster, panting whines as Piers draws close too—is he used to being quiet? Raihan wants to make him scream. His own hand keeps time on himself, praying that their pleasure is synchronized, even while he knows in the back of his mind that this makes him sick for sure. But he’s painfully hard for this, stroking himself even though he’s so wet the angle is bad, panting into the now-damp fabric of his sweater sleeve when he  _ watches _ Piers cum.

It’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen, the way those ice blue eyes squeeze shut and his entire body shudders, back arching up off the bed hard as he shoves the toy in deep and groans. A real, loud, undeniable moan of sheer ecstasy that sends Raihan over the edge too, helpless to do anything but snarl against his wrist and feel himself clench on nothing, cock pulsing hard in between his fingers. Everything in him trembles and shudders, and as soon as it releases him, the relief alone has him sliding to his knees with his fingers still tangled in his sticky underwear. 

Shit. He pants against the doorframe, and is about to pull his hand back out and slink off to the hotel’s shower, when a very clear voice sends a bucket of ice water through his veins.

“Oi—if yer gonna enjoy the show, the least you can do is give a round of applause, mate.”

Piers saw him? His brain is too bliss-addled to formulate a proper response to that, but...after a moment of those words ringing around his head, he catches up to the fact that Piers doesn’t actually seem angry. About the fact that Raihan was just watching him through the door like some peeping tom. 

He pulls his hand free finally, and stands on shaky legs. This is all too good to be true, much much too good to be true, and yet he can’t stop himself from diving for it. Piers’ body is still languid on the bed, covered in a delicate flush when he opens the door and steps through it. 

“You’re—not mad about what I was doing?”

“Nah. Saw you block out the light from the other room when I was undressin’, and when you didn’t come in, I figured I’d give ya a show. See how long it took you to crack.” He sits up on the bed, pulling the toy loose and casting it aside on the sheets. Then his knees come together and he pushes monochromatic hair back out of his face, wearing nothing at all but a debauched smirk. 

“Now, I don’t normally say this and you’d better be treatin’ it like the rarity it is—but come over here so I can give ya an encore.”


End file.
